Colorful
by endlessly wandering
Summary: I find that box, that box with all the goodness of Momma inside of it, and what I find brings me to tears.


_Yet another tie-in to_ wild horses _._ Happy _Easter! Well, late Easter. :)_

 **COLORFUL**

The first time Dad left, Momma was wearing a yellow dress.

It was sort of the color of a dandelion, or maybe a daisy's center. That dark, yet soft and comforting yellow. That yellow dress defined most of our childhood, and Soda and I still find ourselves reminiscing about it every now and then when the subject of our parents comes up. By the time Pony was born, that dress was shoved into a box and stuffed deep in the basement, like a dark past that was to never be mentioned again.

But sometimes I go downstairs. I descend the old, creaky steps; leap and bound over numerous piles of junk and things we can't seem to get rid of. I stand in front of the small closet, close my eyes––anxiety comes barreling into me. Half the time, we don't even check the boxes that we _do_ get rid of anything that might be our parents. We simply throw it away or give it to charity; and each time I come down here, I find myself hoping that they're still here.

There are days where I want to ask why. I want to ask my father why he had to be such an ass, why he had to drink and gamble and waste all of my college money on beer and cards. I want to ask my mother why she felt she had to stay with him, why she didn't leave and instead let him do the leaving; only he came back. I want to ask why she was so nice, so giving, so generous, because I sure as hell wouldn't be that way to a drunk like my father.

Pony asks why they died; how they died. All the damn time, and Soda and I have to sit there and act like we don't know. It's what Momma would want, what she would tell us to do if she were still alive. Soda and I have to sit there and lie to our baby brother about why they didn't come home, and I know it tears Soda up more than it does me. I can hold myself together––I've had to since I was six.

Soda doesn't know any better, especially to Ponyboy. That kid would tell Pony anything he wanted to know, even if he had to pull some information out of his ass. That's the thing about the two of them: they take each other's word for anything and everything, even when it hurts. Even when it makes Soda feel like a shitty person, like an even shittier brother, I can't help but be proud of him for protecting Pony from what hurts.

And maybe it's wrong of me to hide that from Pony. Maybe it's wrong of me to withhold that from my baby brother, the one Soda and I have had to raise since he was six. He never knew Dad like we did; didn't know the pain we watched Momma go through.

Dad got his shit _together_ for Pony. Dad ruined everything for us.

So when I'm down in this damn basement, the door locked so Pony doesn't come down here, I find myself getting angry. I hate Momma for what she did. I hate Dad for everything he ever did, anything he ever said. I hate Momma for staying, hate Dad for leaving. I hate them for one thing and love them for another.

I find that box, that box with all the goodness of Momma inside of it, and what I find brings me to tears.

I find all of her dresses, all of her happiness. I find all of the books, the toys Soda and I once had. I find pictures of her and Dad smiling, being happy, with Momma in a cobalt blue dress and Dad just in his basic jeans and a plaid shirt. I find all of the happy times, and it makes me both angry and sad.

She wore a dark red dress for date nights. A bright blue dress for days at the park. A purple dress for fancy events at work. A cobalt blue dress for housework. A gray dress for school activities. A yellow dress whenever Dad left.

We buried her in a black dress. I wonder if she cried when she got to heaven, knowing her dresses will never be part of her.

I grab all six dresses and bring them upstairs. Soda sits on the couch with Sandy, the glimmer of her engagement ring––my mother's ring––shining as brightly as the smile does on both of their faces. Pony isn't home yet––the perfect time.

I spread them out among the house, in different rooms, in different places. I tell Soda to come here with Sandy, and my heart races as they come into view.

Soda's jaw drops, and he looks at me. He looks directly into my eyes, and there's a million thank you's running through his head, a million sobs climbing up his chest, a million and one memories flooding his vision.

When I stand at my brother's side at his wedding, Sandy's wearing yellow. Soda's handkerchief is gray; Pony's dark red; Steve's purple; Two-Bit's bright blue; mine cobalt blue.

I wonder now if she's crying from heaven, not knowing that it was Soda's idea to cut squares out of each dress, so that one day, Momma could be with her happiness again.


End file.
